


Supernatural's 13 Days of Halloween

by Airasyraye



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Each Chapter Has Own Warnings, Humor, Language, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, blood/gore, dub-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-23 11:20:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8325790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airasyraye/pseuds/Airasyraye
Summary: 13 ficlets of varying length and intensity. One ficlet each day until Halloween. See each chapter for pairings, ratings, full warnings
 
Edit: 11.01.2016--So obviously things got away from me. Work, illness, laziness, issues got in the way. I'll still do them, but obviously they won't be in time for Halloween.





	1. Chapter 1

Leaves

 

Prompt: Destiel/Leaves/Fluff  
Warnings: None

 

Castiel sighed and tilted his head back, eyes closed as a cool breeze stirred his short bangs. It was an Autumn day, the middle of October, and the day was beautiful. The Heavens were a clear blue dotted with fluffy white clouds, the sun was shining bright, and the air was so fresh. 

He was standing in a tiny, leaf-strewn clearing about two miles into the forest from the bunker, drawn out by the fall colors. All around him the trees were bright with reds, golds, oranges, and browns. Leaves fell occasionally to join their comrades already on the ground, crisp and crunching underfoot.

“Cas?”

Castiel turned around to see Dean striding toward him from the direction of the bunker. 

“Yes, Dean?”

“Whatcha doing out here, Cas?”

“Enjoying the wonderful day.”

“Yeah?” Dean looked around. “S’nice, I guess.”

Castiel took another deep breath of fresh air and let it out. He spread his arms a little and turned around. Days like this, he could just enjoy his Father’s creation. The Earth was glorious. It was still full of innocence and wonder and beauty. It was days like this he didn’t regret throwing away everything he’d ever been. This was worth it.

He opened his eyes to see Dean smiling at him. It was an amused smile, no doubt thinking Cas was being silly. 

And looking at him, Cas did not regret what he had done.

Dean’s grin widened when he saw Castiel was looking at him. “Well, don’t stop on my account.”

Castiel sighed contentedly and lay down, putting his hands behind his head, stretched out in the clearing, the leaves crunchy under him. He stared up at the blue, blue sky. After a moment, Dean appeared in his line of sight, then grunted and sat down beside him. Pleased, Cas didn’t turn his gaze from the fluffy clouds drifting lazily across the sky. 

“You know what one of the best things about the Bunker is, Cas?” Dean asked.

“Hmm?”

“Not having to rake up all this shit.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, saw Dean’s smirking face, then huffed and closed his eyes. He breathed deeply and relaxed. A soft thud and crackle of leaves heralded Dean stretching out beside him. Quiet reigned then, just the stir of the breeze. Dean and Cas lay side by side in the sun, Cas with his eyes closed now, drifting in his own approximation of a human doze. 

It was short-lived, however. Dean was not a man to enjoy doing nothing for long. So after a few minutes of peace, he started to fidget and then sighed loudly. Castiel ignored him, even when the sounds and change in the air let him know Dean had sat up. He just lay there in the sunshine, enjoying the mild warmth.

Until he was grabbed and a handful of crunchy leaves were stuck up his shirt. Castiel squawked and sat up, reaching up to pull the leaves out. As he sat up, Dean grabbed the back of his collars and stuffed more leaves down the back of his clothes.

“Dean!”

Laughing, Dean stood up. “Used to do that to Sammy all the time.”

Castiel got to his feet, trying to reach behind him, then fully untucking his shirt and shaking it to try and get all the leaves out. He glared at Dean, who grinned back at him shamelessly. A grin that faded as Castiel advanced on him with a smirk of his own.

“Hey, come on, Cas, just a prank.”

“Come here, Dean,” Castiel said softly.

“Uh-uh.” Dean turned tail then yelled as Castiel gave chase. 

Dean zipped across the clearing, whipped around a massive oak, yelping as Castiel swiped at him and just missed. He pelted across the leaf strewn ground, slipping as the leaves slid under his feet. Castiel followed, reaching to grab Dean and just missing every time as Dean dodged and zipped around like a bunny being chased by a fox. Damn, but Dean was fast. Castiel was impressed.

Dean nimbly crashed through some bushes and disappeared from sight. Cas, trying to trick Dean, didn’t follow through the bushes, but instead ran around, intending to catch Dean on the other side. Only he didn’t appear.

Confused, Castiel paused, cocking his head and listening. Nothing. No crunching leaves, nothing. 

Castiel grabbed some branches and yanked them apart. He peered into the middle of the small thicket of bushes and saw nothing. No Dean. He advanced further in, tensed and looking around, until he came back out the other side where Dean had first gone in. Nothing.

Now thoroughly puzzled, Cas wandered around the trunk of a tree, and then he saw where Dean had gone. A drainage ditch for the Bunker, all but bone dry, ran just to the left of the thicket of bushes, making a curve as it skirted the tree. Dean, after slamming into the bushes, had dropped down into the silent, dry drainage bed, then, when Cas had gone around to the right, had turned and gone back the way he’d come, now running along the drainage ditch back towards the Bunker behind Cas. 

“Clever, Dean,” Cas said quietly. 

The difference was, Dean got tired. Smiling, Cas jumped into the draining ditch and ran along it. Sure enough, around a bend, he heard Dean panting. Dean yelped a curse as Castiel popped out at him around the curve and took off again. Castiel chased him, undeterred when Dean lengthened the distance. He didn’t just have longer legs, he was shockingly fast. 

The drainage ditch, about up to Dean’s shoulder, ended on a grate covering an almost man-sized pipe that disappeared into the foundation of the Bunker. The design kept water from building up around the building and took all rain and snow runoff off into the woods, ending at a stream about three miles beyond where Dean had jumped into it. The part of the ditch that surrounded the pipe was made of concrete and had a set of rusted metal rungs that led up to ground level. 

Dean scrambled up the four-rung ladder, but it cost him his lead. Castiel got up the ladder and lunged, catching Dean around the middle. 

“Ahh!”

Cas had timed his lunge just right. There was an enormous drift of leaves up against the side of the Bunker and Dean disappeared into it as Cas tossed him. Sputtering, Dean came up, then cursed and squirmed as Castiel grabbed handfuls of leaves and kept throwing them on top of him.

“Uncle, uncle!” Dean cried. 

Castiel stopped, only to learn all over again that Dean Winchester was nothing if not a con artist. As he started to straighten up, Dean grabbed the edges of his trench coat and yanked him sideways, getting one foot up against Cas’ closest ankle and tripping him. Castiel landed in the leaves. 

Now they were wrestling, each trying to pin down the other and each trying to bury the other in leaves. Both of them were spitting out particles of leaf, cursing and laughing and twisting. Eventually, Dean was fully out of breath, panting and red-faced and sweaty. On his back, he grinned up at Castiel as he panted, eyes sparkling. He looked cheerful and young and beautiful. Castiel leaned down and kissed him. 

“Mmm.” Dean’s arms came around Cas and pulled him close. 

“I was just trying to enjoy a fall day,” Castiel griped without heat. 

Dean’s hands brushed through Castiel’s disheveled hair, removing leaves. Cas smiled as Dean framed his face in his hands, then leaned up and pecked him on the lips. Still leaning over him, arms bracing himself on either side of Dean, Castiel tilted his head and deepened the kiss. They made out for a bit, then Dean broke away and flopped back into the leaves. Castiel smiled and turned, laying down beside and against him, resting his head on his shoulder and his hands on his stomach. Up above them, the sky was still visible enough where the Bunker broke through the trees. Castiel relaxed, watching the clouds drift by as Dean rested a hand on top of his head and kissed his temple. 

“You’re right, Cas,” Dean said. “It’s a beautiful day.”


	2. Wincestiel/JackOLanterns/Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated T--fluff, kiss, language

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas?”

“What is the point of Jack O’Lanterns?”

Dean and Sam looked up. They were all in the library, enjoying a very rare occurrence of downtime together, content to be around each other in silence while they pursued their own endeavors. Cas was reading, Sam was researching on his laptop, and Dean was cleaning their guns. 

“Jack O’Lanterns?” Dean repeated. “What brought that up?”

Cas turned around his book. On the right page of where he was reading was a big Jack O’Lantern with jagged teeth and triangular eyes, lit from inside with a candle. Dean saw from the words on the left page that Cas was reading from an anthology and had landed on Washington Irving’s The Headless Horseman. 

“Er, I don’t know, Cas. Just a Halloween tradition, you know?”

Sam suddenly chuckled. “Hey, Dean, remember… remember when I was, what, five? The year I broke my arm jumping off the porch, dressed like Batman? And, and Dad wouldn’t let us go out Trick-or-Treating because my arm was still broken in a cast?”

“Yeah?” Dean wasn’t sure where Sam was going with this. He remembered they had been so upset. Sam had cried for hours while Dean had alternated between crying and stomping around angry, because even then, all Hunters knew that Halloween was the one night of the year where it was guaranteed safe. Monsters lay low on Halloween by choice. But John was still punishing the boys for their carelessness, having been furious when he’d found out Sam had been hurt under Dean’s watch. The fact that it had occurred only months after the Shtriga incident had not helped matters. 

“Well, remember, when we went to the store that day, Dad still let us get some candy, right? And I wanted a Jack O’Lantern. Dad didn’t want to have anything to do with it, but you snuck out and stole one from that store and made one for me. It was all lopsided and dirty and warty and you couldn’t line the eyes up right and so it ended up having eyes about half the size of the whole thing.” Sam chuckled. “And-and when Dad saw it, he started laughing so hard that he forgot to even be mad at you for stealing it.”

Dean started to grin. Yeah, that was right. John had lost his anger at the sight of the ridiculous Jack O’Lantern and laughed louder and harder than Dean had remembered hearing since before the fire. He had gone out, gotten a candle and some matches, and even a pizza. The three had eaten pizza and candy and watched the candle flicker in ridiculous Jack O’Lantern. Eventually, John had let them set it in the window and though the boys had never gotten to go Trick-or-Treating, they had gone to bed full and happy.

“Yeah. What…What did he call it?”

“Paddy the Cock-eyed O’Lantern.”

“--Cock-eyed O’Lantern,” Dean finished at the same time Sam did as he remembered. 

Castiel had been watching them as they reminisced. He had a little smile on his face, clearly enjoying the boys remembering something good with their father. 

“I want to make one,” he said suddenly.

Sam and Dean both looked at him in surprise. “What?” Dean asked.

Cas was nodding his head decisively. “A Jack O’Lantern.”

“Really? Cas, it’s just a kid’s thing.”

“I want to make one.” Cas got that stubborn look. That one that said he didn’t care if he was misunderstanding human culture. The one that said he was going to do what he wanted. 

“I’ll help you,” Sam said suddenly. At Dean’s look, he shrugged. “Why not? Cas thinks it‘ll fun.”

Cas beamed at Sam as Dean rolled his eyes. “All right, all right. Let’s make a Jack O’Lantern.”

 

******

 

A quick trip to the store and there were two fat pumpkins sitting on the dining room table along with a couple squat candles, a pair of Sharpies, and a lighter. Sam had gotten Dean’s butcher and filet knives out and Dean had thrown a towel down.

“How do we do this?” Cas asked, looking up at Sam.

“Well, first you need to slice the top of the pumpkin off.” Sam set the butcher knife to the first pumpkin and began sawing across it, lifting the stem and about three inches of top off. “Then we take the guts out.”

“Guts?” Cas peered curiously into the pumpkin.

“Yeah, all that nasty pulp and seeds,” Dean said, snatching the knife from Sam and sawing the top off his own pumpkin. “Dive in there, Cas.”

Cas was still studying the contents of the pumpkin, then watched Dean as he rolled up his sleeves and jammed in his hand into the pumpkin.

“Ohh!” Dean groaned, laughing. “Fuck, that’s nasty.”

He pulled out a handful of pumpkin guts, his fingers and palm dripping with orange gunk and white seeds. Smacking it down on the towel, he grabbed another handful as Sam rolled up his own sleeve and started helping him scoop. Sam made a face as well.

Cas watched them, then peered into his pumpkin again as he shucked his trench coat and suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Both Winchesters paused as he stuck his hand in the pumpkin and then watched as his eyes rounded comically. For a brief second, he looked like a child who had just had something utterly unexpected happen to them, a second of shock and distress before Cas pulled his hand out with a handful of guts that he stared at.

Both Winchesters started laughing at Cas’ reaction. His expression turned inquisitive as he stared at the mess. Dean grabbed another handful out of his pumpkin, groaning again.

“Ugh, fucking gross. Come on, Cas, hurry up and scoop that pumpkin, you wanted to do this.”

Sam moved over to help Cas, who had finally dropped the goop onto the towel and went for more. 

“This is an uncomfortable sensation,” Cas said with his hand buried up to the wrist.

“Fucking gross,” Dean repeated insistently.

“Got to hollow it out to make a Jack O’Lantern, Cas,” Sam said. 

Cas nodded and within a few minutes, both pumpkins were hollowed. Dean grinned at Cas.

“Dare you to eat a bite.”

“Dean,” Sam warned.

Cas frowned at the large pile of orange innards. “I will pass, thank you, Dean.”

“Double dare you,” Dean said as he wiped off his hands.

“Dean, what are you, twelve?” 

“Nah, just want to see an angel puke.”

Cas snorted and picked up the filleting knife. “I do not vomit.”

“Twelve,” Sam said, shaking his head with a sigh. “Hang on, Cas, you need to draw a face on it.”

Cas looked up. Sam picked up a Sharpie and uncapped it. He held out the marker. Cas took it, then studied his pumpkin.

“What do I draw?”

“Anything, Cas, something scary. Or funny or cute if that’s what you want.”

“He’s going to make it a cat,” Dean groaned.

Cas frowned and then settled down into a chair and drew the pumpkin to him, beginning to draw with concentration. Sam picked up the other Sharpie and held it out to Dean. Dean grunted. He was currently bent over the pile of guts, meticulously picking out the seeds.

“Have at it, Sammy.”

Smiling, Sam sat down and began drawing. Dean leaned around to watch periodically as Sam carefully drew Paddy. Dean laughed, shaking his head and cuffing Sam affectionately on his shoulder.

“Looks even worse now.” Dean reached out for Cas’ pumpkin. “What about you, Cas?”

Cas pulled his pumpkin out of reach and gave Dean a firm glare. “It is a surprise.”

Dean snorted again. “Whatever, man. I’m gonna go shove these in the oven.”

He had picked out most of the pumpkin seeds. Holding them in his cupped hands, he left. Sam picked up the filleting knife as Cas was still drawing, and began to carve the face out of the pumpkin. Paddy the Cock-Eyed O’Lantern came to life quickly, all oversized and mismatched eyes, buck teeth, jagged nose, and random little hole in it that had been 9-year-old Dean’s mistaken first attempt at the nose that was completely off center. 

“May I have the knife?” Cas asked.

Sam handed it over. “Whatcha making, Cas?”

“Surprise,” Cas responded distractedly. He lined up the knife and started sawing. Puzzled, Sam sat and watched him. Cas was fully intent on his pumpkin.

The smell of roasting pumpkin seeds wafting in from the kitchen made Sam look up. Cas didn’t even twitch, still sawing at the pumpkin. Sam left him to it and went into the kitchen.

Dean was inside, actually humming to himself as he mixed batter. Raw pork medallions rested on a cutting board, ready to be battered up and fried. Sam smiled at him and walked over to the fridge, getting himself a bottle of water. He took a drink and walked over to Dean.

“He’s really into making that Jack O’Lantern,” he said of Cas.

“Yeah, well, he’s a dorky little guy.”

Sam chuckled, peering over Dean’s shoulder at the dinner he was making. Dean dipped his finger in the bowl, then dabbed Sam’s nose. 

“Hey!”

Dean chuckled, setting the bowl down and turned around. “Sorry, let me get that.”

He leaned forward and flicked his tongue out, licking the spot of batter off the end of Sam’s nose, then wound his arm around his brother’s waist. Sam rolled his eyes.

“Sexy. Licking my nose.”

Dean laughed. “I can do better.”

He tilted his head and kissed Sam deep, darting his tongue into his mouth. Sam felt him grin against his lips when he moaned. Dean drew back, then pecked his nose and released him.

“Get out of my kitchen while I’m cooking.”

Sam snorted and brushed his fingers against the small of Dean’s back as he walked out. He went back into the dining room to see Cas standing, the knife on the table, looking at him expectantly.

“All done, Cas?” Sam asked.

“Yes.”

“Dean! Come on, Cas is done with his Jack O’Lantern!”

“In a minute!” Dean hollered back. “I’m making dinner!”

“You can make dinner later!” Sam yelled as Cas looked a little crestfallen. “Get out here!”

Grumbling with his usual manners, Dean came into the dining room, wiping his hands on a towel. “All right, all right. Whatcha got, Cas?”

Cas walked over to the light switch and shut off the lights. The pumpkins were already glowing. Sam and Dean both chuckled at Paddy, looking ridiculous facing them on the table. Cas’ pumpkin had been moved to set beside them, but was still faced away. In the fire glow, Cas’ express seemed almost hesitant.

“I believe this is something you would enjoy…”

“Come on, Cas, show us,” Dean urged impatiently.

“It’s just your first attempt,” Sam agreed gently. 

Cas grabbed the pumpkin and turned it around. Sam and Dean were both struck dumb. Sitting on the table next to the hapless Paddy was a perfectly carved Baby with the Bunker behind her and small Sam, Dean, and Cas beside her. Cas had carved almost razor-thin lines making up the outline of the bunker, including the barred windows and brick-surrounded entrance door. Cas had cleverly cut out every other brick, making a pattern of candlelit-space and pumpkin shell. Baby was facing three-quarters to the viewer, so her side window, windshield, and headlamps glowed. Sam, Dean, and Cas were only candlelit silhouettes, but the details was astounding. Sam could see his own long hair, the spike of Dean’s, Cas’ long trench coat around his legs. 

“Do you like it?” Cas asked, sounding curious. “I know you said scary or cute, but--”

“It’s amazing, Cas,” Sam said.

“Yeah, awesome,” Dean agreed, leaning closer to stare at it. “How’d you do this?”

“Carved it,” Cas said, sounding puzzled now by Dean’s question. “With the knife Sam gave me.”

Dean rolled his eyes while Sam smiled in amusement. It was really a rhetorical question, which Cas didn’t understand and Dean should have known that. 

“You really like it?” Cas asked.

“Yeah, Cas, it’s awesome,” Dean repeated. “Got my favorite people right here, you, Baby--oh, yeah, Sam, too, I guess.”

He sniggered as Sam cuffed the back of his head. Cas beamed. Dean scooped both pumpkins up and tucked them under his arms. 

“Come on, let’s go put them out on the stoop.”

‘Stoop’ of course meant Dean was going to heave himself up the side of the hill and plunk both pumpkins on the concrete lip beneath the railing above the Bunker entrance door. Cas and Sam stood on the road, watching. 

“That’s quite a Jack O’Lantern, Cas” Sam said while they watched.

“I like yours,” Cas said. “It is amusing.”

Sam chuckled. He slung an arm around Cas and kissed the side of his head. Cas purred and turned into him. Sam lowered his head and let Cas kiss him, which for Cas was deep, slow smooches that made Sam turn to mush. 

“Hey! I’m up here, working my ass off to put these things up here and you two are making out!”

Cas drew back and looked up at Dean. “You are doing a good job, Dean. Hurry, and I can treat you similarly.”

Dean straight slid down the hill, crushing dirt into his jeans without care. He got to his feet and bounced over to Cas, grinning. Sam rolled his eyes, but let Cas go so he could be wound up in Dean’s arms and kiss his brother breathless himself. While the other two licked each others’ tonsils, Sam looked up at the two Jack O’Lanterns flickering merrily above the Bunker entrance. They wouldn’t last, but for now they seemed to represent the past and the present. 

He looked down at the pair now straight nuzzling beside him, something Dean would never cop to, but which Cas always managed to subtly manipulate him into doing, and knew where his future lay. 

“Come on,” Dean said after letting go of Cas. “Let’s go in and get hot apple cider and roasted pumpkin seeds and watch bad horror movies on Netflix.” He turned to Cas and waggled his eyebrows ludicrously. “If you get scared, Cas, I promise I’ll comfort you.”

Sam snorted and jumped as Dean slapped his ass. Laughing, the trio headed back into the Bunker to spend Halloween doing all of the traditions they could think of.


	3. No Pairing/Ghosts/Horror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: light gore/horror, language, set in Season 5.

Dean pelted after Castiel as the angel sprinted down the hallway. Behind them, rows of lockers leapt from the walls of the high school, slamming into the laminate floors with deafening crashes. Doors slammed open; desks overturned and scraped across the rooms; erasers, chalk, dirt, leaves, broken glass, and other detritus spun in pocket tornadoes; and Dean had to leap over a broken chair that came sliding out of a room. 

The pair were in an abandoned high school that hadn’t seen classes in almost a decade. Nine years ago, a janitor had apparently snapped and killed his wife at home before coming in to work, strangling the principal and a young female student, then hung himself in his janitor’s office with his belt. The horror hadn’t stopped there. Although the high school had been shut down for a year afterwards, the surviving students moved elsewhere, the bodies removed and buried, the décor changed in color in an effort to erase the past, and then reopened with a generation of students who had never set foot there, poltergeist activity had soon started. At first, it had seemed mostly rumors or unsubstantiated stories believed to be people trying to maintain the gruesome background of their school. It wasn’t until things had started to escalate and multiple people began to see things move that the reality had settled in. 

Events had escalated, resulting in panic attacks, injuries, and one disappearance, and in only six months, the high school was again abandoned. The official story was that a weather event had caused severe damage to the school’s electrical and water systems and it was more costly to repair and upgrade a 60-year-old one-building school than to build a new, more energy-efficient one across town. The kids and staff had been moved and the school had been abandoned with a massive chain link fence with a padlocked gate going up around it to keep people out. 

The Winchesters had caught wind of the case when a series of teenagers--seriously, when would they ever learn?--had started breaking in and systemically were injured by the rampaging ghost. Last month, a trio of boys only thirteen years old had broken in. The resulting carnage had left one kid missing an eye and with terrible scratches running down the left side of his face from temple to jaw, done to the bone, that would require cosmetic surgery. A second had been half crushed on the same side from being thrown out of the window on the second floor, leaving him with a broken arm, leg, ribs, and collar bone. Both were suffering brain damage and PTSD. The third child had gone missing.

Dean had not wanted to take the case. Meeting Lucifer in Detroit was barreling down on them. Cas was sick, Sam was going to die, and Dean just didn’t care. 

But Sam did. Maybe he had the same reasons Dean did before his own time was up--act normal until the end--so he’d insisted on going. So here they were. 

Arriving in town, the boys had been shocked to find that real FBI agents were already there. Apparently, there was a known pedophile who had escaped prison two weeks before the kids had gotten hurt, and now missing kids equaled FBI, and Dean and Sam were out of luck in pretending to be agent themselves, which presented a problem. They hadn’t used other disguises in a long time. It was easiest to just show up, put on the suits, and flash their fake badges. They got anywhere, talked to anybody, saw everything. But if they couldn’t be FBI agents, then what? 

Sam had decided on being cub reporters and being sneaky. So, they had gotten a room at the most unassuming motel in town and did research on the sly. It was a lot harder to get information as ‘reporters’ than ‘agents’ because reporters tended to have a bad reputation. Almost all of the people they’d tried to talk to had rushed them out or given them the cold shoulder and finally Sam had snuck right into the more coherent child’s room while the parents were distracted by Dean out in the hallway. He’d managed a couple of questions before being found out. Sam had literally hightailed it out as an angry, distraught, and protective father chased him with a chair. Dean had had to trip the father, shouting sorry as he ran after his brother, feeling terrible, but knowing it was for their own good. 

It had been for nothing. The child was doped on drugs and severely injured. He started crying the moment Sam had brought up that night in the school and Sam, horrified at upsetting him, had spent the last couple of minutes he had trying to calm him down. The only useful information he’d gotten was that the child had used the word ‘they’ which meant more than one ghost. 

Once back at their motel, sure that the parents would at least lodge a complaint with the police, they’d packed up and bailed, setting up shop in the next town over, sneaking over at night from then on. The rest of the week had been spent digging up graves and burning bones. It had been tiring work. In addition to the janitor, his wife, the principal, and the female student, they’d had to take on six others--one of which was the surviving child of the janitor who had been furious at his treatment by his peers. He’d run off at eleven then suddenly shown up again at seventeen. He’d gone berserk, tearing up businesses, threatening townsfolk, until one young cop on the scene, inexperienced and nervous, had shot the kid when he’d rushed him. The kid had died an hour later and the troubled cop had eaten his service weapon two days later. The other four bodies were those of kids who had died of their severe injuries at the school during the poltergeist’s original activity or in the years since. With ten bodies, the Winchesters were exhausted. 

It was for this reason that Dean thought the mistake had been made. After burning the bones, there had been no choice but to venture into the high school themselves and check if it was over and done with. 

It wasn’t.

They’d split up, something they rarely did, and that foolishness had been rewarded. While Dean was poking around classrooms, Sam had crossed into cafeteria. By his own admission, he’d been so tired from the week of hard labor and little sleep that he’d stopped and closed his eyes and rubbed them with his hand. While he was distracted, the ghost had struck. A cafeteria table had been flung across the room with unusual strength and caught Sam in the leg. Although Sam had not suffered any broken bones, the cafeteria table had started crushing him, being borne down by supernatural force. Sam’s cries had alerted Dean, who had come rushing to his aid. Flinging salt around in a frenzy, he’d scored and was able to drag Sam to safety. 

Suffering bruised ribs, a gash, and a badly sprained knee, Sam was out of commission. Dean had wanted to bail, give this one up, but Sam had insisted they stay. He’d even tried to limp out of the hospital room, so determined to get revenge for the three kids that Dean had promised he’d do it if Sam promised to stay and recuperate. He’d gotten Sam back into bed. But, of course, as soon as he was down on his back, Sam had worried about Dean going alone. 

“Call Cas,” he’d urged. 

“Sam, the guy’s drained. He’s practically human.”

Cas was in bad shape. Sleeping almost constantly, he was back at the motel. He’d helped with the bodies, but, unused to be tired, he’d been tottering on his feet when they’d taken him back to the room, still protesting that he could help. 

“He can still be useful,” Sam had said.

So Dean had gone and collected Cas, who at least was rested, and now here they were, running like jackasses while an as-yet-unseen poltergeist tore the place apart. 

Cas yelped as a door flung open, catching him in the arm and sending him staggering into a wall. Dean skidded to a halt, then turned to face the threat, raising his rock salt shotgun. 

He felt an invisible force wrap around him. His feet left the ground and he felt as if he was being squeezed in a vice. Gasping, his ribs groaning, he kicked uselessly, arms pinned to his sides in a deadly bear hug. The shotgun clattered to the floor.

“Dean!”

Cas was on his feet, his container of salt in his hands. He was pulling his arm back to toss when suddenly his feet were jerked out from under him. He hit the ground, the breath knocked out of him in a whoosh, and then was dragged down the hallway.

“Cas!” Dean rasped, still trying to kick and struggle. 

Around the corner Cas went, out of sight. His yelling was still echoing through the halls as Dean saw blackness start to fill the edges of his vision. Pain seared through his chest and he was not sure if his ribs were broken yet. 

He managed to get his hand twisted behind him. He grabbed the end of his crowbar and yanked it upside out of his belt. Twisting his wrist, he made a weak arc with it behind him. 

It was enough. He smacked unpleasantly to the floor. Getting up, grabbing his shotgun, he went charging down the hall, ignoring the awful pain in his chest, and saw Cas upside down in midair, his shoes almost to the ceiling. He was silent, arms and tie dangling.

“Cas!”

Dean got under Cas, dropped the shotgun, and swiped with the crowbar. Cas landed on him and squashed him to the floor. The fall at least jostled him and he wheezed. Not dead, thank God, not dead.

Dean stuck his crowbar in his mouth, grabbed the shotgun with one hand, and got his arms around Cas’ chest. He started dragging him backwards down the hall, around the corner, back the way he’d come. Cas groaned and opened his eyes. He looked up groggily, but cleared quickly. Dean stopped and propped Cas against the wall. 

Screeching started down the hall behind him.

“Oh, I am done with this!” Dean yelled. 

He raised his rock salt shotgun and blasted a shot at the energy wave bearing down on them. Pumping another chamber, he fired again as he stormed down the hallway. Quickly he broke the gun and yanked two fresh shells out of his jacket pocket. The wave came at him again just as he loaded and snapped the gun back together. Another shot and a scream of rage and pain, and the energy wave blasted apart. 

Dean went racing down the hallway. 

“What’s down here you don’t want me to see, huh, you ectoplasmic bastard?!” 

The only room that had not flung open its doors was the room on the right, directly in front of the stairwell. The energy started forming again and Dean shot it apart. He broke the gun once more and reloaded. Reaching the door, he tried the handle, but was unsurprised to find it locked. Sticking the shotgun between his legs, he pulled his crowbar out of his belt and swung it at the handle. Pain lanced up his arms as metal rebounded off metal, but he held on and gave it another swing. This time the reverberation made his fingers go numb. The crowbar clattered to the ground. 

Roaring started behind him. He whipped around and very nearly caught a crowbar to the face as Cas swung the one he’d borrowed from Sam. 

“Keep him off my back!” Dean yelled as he grabbed his own crowbar back up, letting the shotgun fall. He stepped on it to keep the ghost from grabbing it, then swung the crowbar again. The handle snapped and fell off. Dean jammed the end into the broken piece again and again, until the wood splintered and the inside handle fell out. Dean dug his fingers into the hole, grasped the broken bolt, and yanked it out. He flung the broken door open and saw a tiny, windowless office. The janitor’s office. 

“Dean!”

Dean spun around. The ghosts had finally materialized. It was the janitor and his son. Both glared hatefully at Dean and Cas. 

“Keep them off, Cas!”

Dean turned away, grabbing into his jacket for the can of lighter fluid. He started squirting aimlessly, trying to soak everything. Then he saw a picture on the metal filing cabinet. The janitor and the son, age 11 or younger, arms around each other and grinning. The father was holding up a giant catfish. 

Dean stepped into the office, grabbed the photo, and smashed it to the ground. As the glass broke, he soaked it in lighter fluid.

“Dean!”

Dean spun around again, just in time to see Cas’ shoes disappear out of sight. The ghosts had overwhelmed him and the crowbar lay on the ground. The shotgun went spinning out of sight. 

“Cas, I’m coming!”

As he turned back, a force struck him in the back. He flew into the room, sailing over the desk. An inbox and outbox, stapler, a stack of papers, and a cup of pens joined him on the floor on the other side. Dean hauled himself up onto his knees just as the door slammed shut. 

“No!”

Dean pushed himself up by the desk and lunged across the tiny room. He stuck his fingers in the hole and tried to yank the door open, but it wouldn’t budge. It was closed by more than a lock this time.

“DEAN!” Cas wailed, followed by a horrible cry of pain.

“Cas! Cas!”

Dean looked around frantically. Already the smell of lighter fluid was making him dizzy and there was nothing in here. The crowbars were out in the hall, the shotgun was somewhere farther away, and the ghosts had Cas. 

Dean felt in his pockets. A canister of salt, a handful of rock salt shotgun shells, and his lighter. Dean held it up.

He could set the blaze, destroy the ghosts, the immolate himself in the process.

Cas was screaming. 

Dean put his thumb on the wheel. Cas would get out, Sam was safe, and Dean… 

…might end up back in Hell.

But Sam and Cas would be safe. 

Dean closed his eyes and started to crank the wheel.

Cas’ screams stopped. Dean’s eyes snapped open and waited, breath bated. He looked at the door as scuffling started. The door was suddenly shoved open and Cas nearly pitched through. Dean, eyes bugging, grabbed him and held him up, ignoring the nearly unendurable pain in his chest. He was gasping for breath himself, his eyes, lungs, and throat burning from the fumes of the lighter fluid, his ribs screaming, wondering if he could have a heart attack from pain alone. Cas was pale, a gash over his left eyebrow, his right arm hanging uselessly, and his white dress shirt soaked with blood. His left hand was clamped around his canister of salt.

The ghosts appeared behind him. Dean grabbed the canister and threw it over Cas’ head. The ghosts veered around it and came at them. Dean didn’t know what to do. They were still it the lighter fluid-soaked room, Cas was possibly bleeding out, Dean was fast becoming too weak to drag them both out, and the ghosts were blocking the only exit.

And a third appeared behind the janitor and son. The wife.

“Fuck,” Dean gasped. He wasn’t even aware he was tilting sideways until he and Cas both crashed into the doorjamb. Dean’s head was spinning, black was filling his vision again. He couldn’t breathe. 

BAM.

A blast of sound and light echoed through the hallways. The ghosts flew back, screaming, and disappeared. Dean looked up.

Cas was standing in the doorway. His eyes were glowing ethereal, his body outlined in white light, in full angry angel mode. The shadows of wings flickered against the walls as thunder and lightning flashed and crashed. Cas’ hand on Dean’s shoulder was squeezed painfully tight, but energy surged. The pain and exhaustion disappeared, healed by Cas’ Grace.

Suddenly, it ended. The lights faded, the wings disappeared, Cas staggered forward a few steps, and collapsed into the hallway. Dean jumped to his feet and rolled him over. He was conscious, but pale and sweaty, gasping for breath. His hands were shaking. It was over, he was one hundred percent drained. 

The ghosts in the hallway.

Dean scrambled back into the office, grabbed the lighter from the floor, and went on his ass back into the hallway, kicking his feet against the floor. He skidded across the filthy linoleum, backed into Cas, and shoved them both across. As he went, he clicked the wheel, and threw the lighter into the office. Even as it was sailing, he twisted around and threw himself over Cas.

Whoosh. The lighter fluid caught and the office went up. Heat seared out of the office and over Dean and Cas, but it wasn’t as bad as Dean had feared. He raised his head as screaming started.

The ghosts. The janitor and his son broke up and collapsed into red cinders. The wife remained in the hallway.

“Shit,” Dean said weakly. 

The wife stood and stared. Suddenly beside her appeared a teenage girl, then a middle-aged man, and a thirteen-year-old boy. Dean’s heart plummeted. The kid hadn’t made it.

The four ghosts stood silently, then one by one, they smiled. As Dean watched, the wife raised her hand and waved. Then the four linked hands and disappeared.

“They’re at rest,” Cas said under Dean. 

Dean rolled off, onto his back. The fire was still blazing, but it had died down some. Dean lay in the middle of the hallway floor, sucked in a great breath of air, then let it out. 

And received a faceful of stinking water. Sputtering, Dean sat up.

The sprinkler systems. Rusty, stagnant water was pouring out of the sprinklers overhead and dousing them. Cursing, Dean climbed to his feet, then grabbed Cas. The not-angel , was weak and shaky, but fine. He’d healed himself along with Dean in an angry, desperate burst that had used up the last of his power, but he was fine. Dean helped him down the hallway, the two of them gathering up the crowbars and shotgun, leaving the rest behind.

Outside, sirens. Cursing some more, Dean hurried Cas along. They made it halfway across the street before they were lit up by headlights. Police cars.

The cop cars screeched to a halt. Two of them, with an ambulance and a fire truck behind. Doors opened and four officers got out.

“Hey!” one shouted.

“Hello.”

“Really, Cas?” Dean yanked him by the arm to the Impala in the parking lot across the street. He flung open the door and jammed Cas inside.

“Freeze!” 

Dean shoved Cas unceremoniously across the bench seat and got in. He yanked his door shut and shoved the keys into the ignition. A cop had made it to the Impala. He grabbed the passenger side door handle, found it locked, and pounded on the window with his service revolver. A crack appeared.

“Shit!” Dean yelled. He started the engine, put Baby in gear, and jammed his foot onto the gas pedal.

Thankfully, cop number one was the only terminator. The rest hadn’t caught up yet and the first cop was smart enough to jump back as Dean swung the wheel and the Impala roared across the black top away from the cop. He gunned the engine, plowing over the curb, crushing a small decorative bush, and hit the street.

They weren’t safe yet. Headlights pierced the darkness behind. At least one cop had turned back to the cars as Dean and Cas got in Baby and was now chasing them. 

Cursing even more, Dean stomped on the accelerator, then took the next left immediately, then the next right, making a Z. He roared down the street, then took the next left, then another left, then a right. Dean could still hear the siren, but he couldn’t see the headlights in his rearview anymore.

“Dean, this is an unsafe speed,” Cas said, hanging onto the safety bar with one hand and bracing on the dash with the other.

“No shit.”

Dean shut off the headlights and slowed down. He took another corner, then another, then another. The sirens were almost inaudible. Abruptly, they ceased altogether. Breathing a sigh of relief, Dean pulled into a parking lot and behind a closed shop. He shut off the car and leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes.

“Dean?”

“Mmm?”

“I am shaking.”

Dean opened his eyes and looked at Cas in the interior light of the Impala that hadn’t gone off yet. He had his hands up and was examining them in fascination. His fingers were indeed trembling.

“I feel strange. My heart is racing and I am shaking, but I do not feel alarmed any longer. Is this adrenaline?”

Dean snorted and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Yeah, Cas, it is. You’re coming down from a…what do you they call it, fight or flight response or something.”

“It is an unusual feeling.” Cas was still studying his hands. “When do they stop?”

Dean chuckled as he started the engine again and pulled out back to the street. “I guess whenever your body is done being scared.”

Cas’ fingers slowly curled as he took to looking into space beyond them. Dean mentally kicked himself, but said nothing. He took off for the highway to get back to the motel. Taking out his cell phone, he flipped it open and speed dialed Sam.

“Dean.”

“Hey, Sammy. Charbroiled some ghosts. Me and Cas are fine.”

“Good,” Sam sounded relieved.

“Listen, gonna take him on back to the motel. Then I’ll swing round and get you.”

“They won’t discharge me until 8:00am. Get some rest, Dean.”

Dean wasn’t sure that hospitals had a specific discharge time, but he didn’t argue. It was just after four thirty in the morning and dawn would break an in two hours. Dean was tired enough to be fighting to keep his eyes open.

Thankfully the next town was 8 miles up the freeway and the motel practically six feet off the ramp. Dean pulled up to their room and turned off the engine. Cas turned to look at him, blinking.

“I am tired again,” he sighed.

“Yeah, Cas, that’s how it goes.” Dean hesitated, bit his lip. “Listen… you know, thanks.”

“For what?” Cas asked. 

Dean inwardly groaned. It was hard enough, did Cas have to be obtuse and make it harder. “You know. All of it.”

Dean jerked open his car door and got out so he wouldn’t have to look at those big eyes. He walked up the motel door and sleepily pawed in his pockets for his keycard, then thunked his head against it with a soft curse as he realized it was gone. Getting thrown around by ghosts occasionally resulted in lost items. Thankfully, he’d never lost Baby’s keys.

Cas appeared at his side. He held up a keycard. Dean smiled and moved back so Cas could open the room. The inside of it smelled like mildewed rats, but at least it had beds. Sam and Dean had bunked together while Cas took the other bed, simply acting on having shared beds most of the time for 18 years growing up before Sam had cut for Stanford.

Dean flopped with all of the grace of a tranquilized steer. He toed off his shoes over the side of the bed, then sighed. He turned his head and saw Cas curled up in a ball on his bed, his trench off and draped over him, hands tucked under his head on the pillow, already seeming fast asleep.

Dean smiled at him, then reached over and turned off the light. He lay in the darkness, bone weary, and unable to sleep. The world sucked right now. And it was only going to get worse in Detroit.

Dean closed his eyes, and promised himself, no matter what, he would break his promise to Sam and save his little brother from the Cage.


	4. Sastiel/Nightmare/Smut

Nightmare

“Sam, will you allow me inside?”

Castiel leaned gently against the door to Sam’s bed room. From inside he could hear the soft weeping he’d been aware of for a few moments. He wanted nothing more than to soothe him. There was a pause, then Sam’s hoarse, trembling voice gave him permission. Castiel immediately turned the knob and slipped inside. 

There he was, lying in a curled ball with his face down against his pillow. Castiel crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the mattress. He reached out, resting his hand lightly across Sam’s shaking back. He did not immediately ask why Sam was crying. Instead, he just sat there, gently stroking Sam’s back, offering his comfort. 

Eventually Sam sniffled, raising his head. His cheeks were wet with tears, his hazel-green eyes shiny. His expression was heartbreaking and Sam reached out with his other hand to wipe away some of the tears. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, hastily wiping at his face.

“Don’t be. There is no shame.” 

A fresh tear ran down his cheek. But this time he took a deep, shaky breath that was meant to fortify and when he let it out, he looked more steady. Castiel smiled a little, the hand that had been resting on Sam’s back now on his waist when he turned over. 

“I, uh, nightmare.” 

Castiel nodded. That was one of the things for which he was grateful that he was an angel. Memories were bad enough. The human psyche took everything and made it a thousand times worse. 

“Do you want to tell me what about?” Castiel asked softly.

Sam sniffled and rubbed his face against his shoulder. “You know, you’d think, after all this time, I’d just shrug it off.”

Castiel said nothing, didn’t react except to shake his head a little. He reached out and stroked Sam’s hair back from his face, tucking it behind his ear. 

Sam managed a little smile. “I love you, Cas.”

Castiel smiled back, leaning over to kiss Sam’s forehead. “I love you.”

Sam’s shaky smile widened a little and he hugged Castiel firmly. Castiel embraced him back, stroking his hair, waiting. He knew Sam was done with his crying. All he needed now was the comfort that would strengthen his spirit.

Sam leaned back after several long moments, no longer hiccupping, eyes still blood shot. Castiel wanted him to tell him his nightmare, but he knew he wouldn’t. Stubborn Winchesters. 

Sam swallowed, then suddenly leaned closer and kissed Castiel on the mouth. He sniffled, then kissed him again, one hand coming up to rest against the side of his face. Castiel reached up, taking that hand and holding it gently with his own, staring into Sam’s eyes when he drew back.

They didn’t need to talk. They knew each other’s thoughts well enough that it wasn’t needed. Castiel leaned closer, holding Sam’s chin with his other hand and kissed him, tongue running along the seam of Sam’s lips until his mouth opened for him. Their tongues coiled together, lips warm and firm against each other’s. 

Sam moaned, leaning towards Castiel, pressing closer. Castiel let go of his hand and chin to wrap his arms tight around him, pulling him against his body. Sam’s arms wound around his neck, fingers brushing the shorter hair at the base of Castiel’s skull, making him shiver. 

He leaned against him, tilting Sam back until his head rested on the pillow. He lay on top of him, shifting so that his legs rested on either side of his hips. Sam arched his back, rubbing his hips up against Castiel’s, making them both groan. Castiel broke the kiss to begin making his way down Sam’s neck, his hands beginning to untuck his black sleep shirt, brushing his fingers over his flat stomach.

Sam’s body was so beautiful to him. As he pushed up his shirt until he could remove it and toss it onto the floor, he sat up a little, bracing on his arms over him to look him over. Sam’s pretty face framed by his long brown hair. His graceful neck was dotted with little love bites from Castiel’s teeth. His broad shoulders and muscled arms and chest. The pink nipples now hardening with building lust...Castiel leaned over to suck one, hearing Sam moan and feeling his fingers brush through his hair.

Castiel trailed his tongue over Sam’s chest to the other, his hands rubbing over his ribs, down to his stomach. Castiel chased his fingers with his mouth, dipping his tongue into the navel, feeling the muscles of Sam’s abdomen shift a little. He gently squeezed the narrow hips before working on the fastenings to his pants, shoving them down his legs until he could push them off onto the floor.

Sam’s boxers were tented already, and he sat up, taking Castiel’s face between his hands and kissing him. Castiel opened his mouth for Sam’s tongue, letting him push his trench coat and suit jacket off his shoulders and down his arms in one go, fingers trailing and awakening tingles along his skin. He let the jacket slide off, then moaned as Sam unbuttoned his shirt and drew his hands up his back as he slid it off. They never broke apart to accomplish that, breathing into each other as Castiel was undressed. After a moment, Castiel took the opportunity to push Sam back into the mattress.

He slid down, kissing the inside of one of Sam’s thighs, lifting it up to rest over his shoulder as he traced the length of the thigh up to the seam. Such long, long legs. Castiel loved Sam’s legs. 

Sam shivered as he licked the sensitive area where the leg met the body, teeth nipping at his abdomen just above the waistband of his boxers. 

“Cas...” Sam shivered, then leaned up, biting at Castiel’s shoulder as he reached under him to undo his pants and shove them down his hips. Castiel groaned, turning his head to kiss him, shifting awkwardly to get his pants down past his knees to kick them off. He lost his balance and toppled over.

Sam laughed, rolling with him until he was on top. Castiel grinned self-consciously, drawing his hands up Sam’s arms. They kissed again, rocking gently together to create some friction between them, both still wearing boxers that were getting damp, moaning quietly into each other’s mouths.

Sam turned his head to the side as Castiel kissed the soft spot beneath his ear before drawing the lobe between his teeth and nibbling. Sam’s fingers slid down his thigh, then pushed up through the loose leg of his boxers to wrap around his erection and stroke. Castiel gasped, moving his hips against his hand, holding onto Sam’s shoulders.

Sam whispered breathlessly, his voice low and husky. “I just need you right now, Cas.”

“I need you too, Sam.” Castiel wrapped his legs around Sam’s hips, squirming as he continued to stroke him. He groaned, lifting his hips as Sam removed his hand to push his boxers down. Castiel had to let go of him with his legs, but Sam merely resettled himself after tossing the garment to the floor, bending down and pulling him into his mouth.

Castiel cried out softly, biting his bottom lip as Sam began to suck. Sam’s tongue stroked him in a way that had his fingers digging into the sheets and he shook with the pleasure, forgetting for the moment all his worries. He let go of his anger and his strive to be strong and composed, merely feeling the hot wetness of Sam’s mouth, the glide of his tongue and the scrape of his teeth, the dizzying pleasure building slowly between his legs. Sam began to bob his head, sucking strongly until Castiel came with a low cry, feeling Sam swallow and sit back.

Panting as he recovered, Castiel opened his eyes half-way to see Sam grinning down at him, looking more like his usual self. Here, too, he could let go of his fears and his sadness, forget for a moment all the pain and self-inflicted guilt, and just be Castiel’s lover.

Castiel sat up, taking Sam’s face between his hands like he had done to him and kissed him, pushing his tongue inside his mouth. He could taste himself on Sam’s tongue and he groaned, slowly turning them until Sam was on the bottom again. 

Sam moaned for him when he gently pinched one of his nipples, nipping to leave a mark on one of his shoulders. He dragged his tongue down Sam’s body, feeling him squirming now from the need for release. His fingers were digging into Castiel’s shoulders, his breathless gasps heating Castiel’s blood.

“Cas, please.”

Castiel reached down, taking his erection into his hand and stroking, bending down to lick at the very tip. Sam cried out, his hips bucking up, but Castiel restrained him with his other hand. He trailed the tip of his tongue around the head, swirling around and around until Sam was almost crying from the frustration.

“Cas!”

Chuckling, Castiel opened his hand a bit to allow his tongue to glide down the length of Sam’s shaft, mouthing gently at his sac before drawing his lips feather-light back up. Sam was tugging at his hair a little and he gave in, pulling him into his mouth and down his throat. Sam’s hips moved slowly against him, his steady groans urging Castiel on.

Castiel swallowed his release a couple minutes later, sitting up. As Sam panted under him, he leaned over and pulled opened the nightstand drawer, getting the tube of lubricant stored there. He slicked his fingers, lifting one of Sam’s legs to rest on his shoulder as he reached for his entrance. He pushed his fingers into him slowly, working Sam over until he was aroused again, moving against Castiel’s hand and whimpering every time his prostate was rubbed.

Castiel grunted as Sam grabbed his erection after slicking his own fingers, rubbing the lube into his skin. They teased each other for several seconds before Castiel pulled his fingers out and grabbed Sam’s wrist. Bending over to kiss him, he took Sam’s hips and gently guided himself into position, beginning to slide into the tight heat that nearly drove him insane each time. Sam moaned against his mouth, his legs winding around his back to pull him against him with a flex of his strong muscles. 

Sam did not need long to adjust, and he pushed against Castiel impatiently, drawing his nails up his back. Castiel growled, beginning his thrusts in a slow rhythm. Sam matched him, the pair exchanging more breathless kisses. Castiel nuzzled into the side of Sam’s head, dropping his mouth to the juncture of neck and shoulder. 

Sam’s hands squeezed his buttocks hard and he rumbled, picking up the pace as Sam jerked up to meet him. He braced himself on one arm, dragging the nails of his free hand up one of Sam’s thighs before encircling his erection and pumping him. As Sam’s slicked inner walls rubbed him maddeningly, he felt the build of pressure all over again, pleasure making his head hazy. Sam moaned under him, bucking up against him in a rising frenzy. 

His teeth clamped on his shoulder and he came with a muffled yell. Hissing at the sting, Castiel followed with a final cry. They buckled together in a trembling heap, kissing lazily in the afterglow. Castiel withdrew and rolled over onto his side, pulling Sam into his arms. He kissed his sweaty forehead, letting Sam rest his head on his chest.

Sam traced aimless patterns over his chest before threading their fingers together. They cuddled for a while. 

“Go to sleep, Sam,” Castiel murmured, running his fingers through Sam’s hair. “I’m here.”

He felt, rather than saw, Sam smile and as he drifted off to sleep, Castiel lay quiet, basking in the warmth of Sam’s body and soul. Castiel basking in the light of Sam’s soul. Sam didn’t understand the depths of his impact on Castiel, his light a beacon to him, his strength within always awe-inspiring. Dean might have been the Righteous Man, but Sam was not the Boy King now, if he ever truly was. For the love of Dean, his friend, Castiel had fallen. For the love of Sam, his lover, he would never rise again unless Sam, and Dean, could rise with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I deliberately didn't go into detail with the nightmare because it didn't seem to me like Sam would say it and this was always going to be Cas' POV.


	5. Wincest/Vampires/Gore/Smut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Blood, pain/torture, language, graphic, dubious consent

Pain

Dean gasped, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth together until his jaw ached. He heard his laugh, deep and rough, felt his tongue against his stomach, licking up the trickle of blood. Breathing heavily, Dean slowly opened his eyes, staring up into the blazing eyes staring down at him, almost glowing in the semi-darkness of the room that was brightened only by a dozen lit candles.

Sam sat up on his haunches, his bare chest heaving gently. The firelight glinted over his skin, picking out highlights in his mussed hair, making his eyes gleam and his teeth flash as he grinned. One hand resting on Dean's stomach, the other held up the blood-tinged knife. 

"You look wonderful blooded, Dean," Sam growled, his eyes wandering down his body. He reached out and drew the knife against Dean's right pectoral. 

Grunting softly at the spike of pain, Dean's arms pulled on the handcuffs instinctively. The metal bit into his wrists, bruising them. He was completely naked, the sheets drawn up to his hips which Sam was sitting on. He watched Sam bend down and his pink tongue flicker over his chest, tracing the new nick and licking up the line of blood.

"Delicious," Sam purred. 

He took a nipple into his mouth and bit down on it. Hissing, Dean arched against him, head slamming back against the pillow. Sam let up, licking at the throbbing nub.

"You have no idea how happy I am you've given into me," he said. "It took you a while to come around, but now you're quite into it, aren't you? I can feel it." 

He shifted his hips, grinding against the hard erection beneath the sheets. Dean moaned, letting his eyes drift close again at the feel of the fabric rubbing against his skin. He nodded as he bit his bottom lip.

“I still love you, you know,” Sam said quietly, voice boring into Dean’s head. “That’s never changed.”

What had seemed like a routine case two months ago had ended everything. A 12-year-old ‘survivor’ of a nest of vampires had really been one of them. Sam had taken the victim home while Dean finished packing up and when Sam hadn’t come back, Dean had worriedly searched for him. He’d found his brother pale as milk, breath rasping in his throat, the child vampire sitting on his chest, mouth smeared with his blood, watching him die. Dean had taken her head off and thrown the body to the floor, grabbing Sam and pulling him close, abandoning the machete in favor of lifting Sam up.

“Hang on, hang on, hang on,” Dean had chanted as he’d carried Sam to Baby, intending to drive him to the nearest hospital, get him a blood transfusion.

What he hadn’t realized, until Sam had lunged and sunk his fangs into neck, was that the vampire child hadn’t been waiting for Sam to die, but for him to turn.

Dean had run off the side of the road, shoved Sam off, and had reached for the door handle. Sam had punched him in the face and put him under.

Since then, he’d been here, in the bedroom of some abandoned house who knew where, the bed old and uncomfortable, as Sam’s personal little toy and blood bank. Dean didn’t know when he’d given in to his brother. When he’d stopped pleading for him to let him go and cure him--surely, somewhere, there was a cure, Dean was sure, even if Sam laughed at him--he didn’t know when he’d stopped and became Sam’s willing slave. Maybe immediately.

"Open your eyes and look at me."

Dean did so, watching Sam sitting on his hips. He was half-naked, his jeans doing nothing to hide the bulge. The knife was still in his hand, pommel resting against his thigh. As Dean watched, Sam raised the knife and licked up the blood on it with cat-like flicks of his tongue. Dean always expected him to slice his tongue when he did that but he never did. His eyes were wild and bright, the firelight sparkling in their evil depths.

Sam suddenly threw the knife. It landed in the headboard Dean was handcuffed to, vibrating from the impact and sunk up halfway to the grip, directly dead center between his hands and less than an inch from the top of his head. 

It had sunk into a hole already made from many more throws. Sam was frighteningly skilled at it, hitting the same spot over and over with the merest flick of his arm. 

Sam got to his feet, still with a leg on either side of Dean's hips. He undid his belt, then jerked it from its loops with a crack. Bending down gracefully, holding his balance with easy movements of his muscles, he looped the belt around Dean's neck, then pulled it tight. 

Choking, Dean stared at him with wide eyes as the pressure filled his head. Sam watched him, eyes searching his face which he knew must be turning red. Dean didn’t protest, just lay there, strangling, wondering if Sam was going to kill him this time. Just when he was about to pass out, Sam eased up on the belt, loosening it and taking it off, tossing it casually off the bed without looking.

Gasping for air, his head spinning, Dean watched as he undid his button and zipper. He reached his hand inside and caressed himself through his underwear. Eyes closing, he tilted his head back, moaning. Lust sizzled through Dean's nerves as he watched him touch himself, his face upturned so that he couldn't see his expression though he knew it was rapturous. Watching his chest rise and fall faster with his breathing, his other hand slowly curling into a fist, Dean felt his own body tightening more with need. 

It didn’t matter what Sam was now. Sweet little brother, badass hunter, demon-blood freak, violent vampire--he was still Sam. 

 

******  
It wasn’t that Dean hadn’t tried to fight him. He’d come to as Sam was dragging him to this house and had fought him with everything he had. He’d nearly gotten away, but Sam had jumped on him and smashed him to the ground, then smashed Dean’s forehead into a rock. He’d come to again, slipped the cuffs around his wrists and was outside again before Sam had noticed. His brother had come charging after him again, but Dean had been back to Baby and had the trunk open. The extra machete was in his hands and he’d punched and kicked Sam to the ground, then stood over him with it, ready to swing.

Bleeding himself from his nose and mouth, smiling, Sam had laid down fully on his back and threw his arms wide, staring up at him. “Go ahead, Dean. Do it. Take my head off.”

Dean had raised the machete…and couldn’t do it. Sam had stared up at him, his smile fading as the seconds ticked by, but when Dean had slowly lowered the machete, the smile had come back. He’d stood, grabbing Dean around the waist as Dean stepped back, pulling him against him, one hand flat against his back, the other wrapped around the wrist still holding the blade. 

“Drop it,” Sam said softly. 

“Sammy. I can find a cure.”

Sam had laughed. “Drop the machete, Dean.”

It had clunked to the ground. “Sammy, please, just fight it. You don’t have to hurt people.”

“You’re right. I have you.”

He’d crushed Dean up against the side of the car. Dean had tried to shove him off, but Sam was so much stronger now. Sam had kissed him and Dean had whined, but stopped fighting, responding to the kiss he knew so well. Sam had kept kissing him, drawing him away from the car and back towards the house. Dean had gone with him. 

It wasn’t until he’d seen Sam’s set up--the handcuffs on the headboard, the knife, that he’d turned and tried to get away again. Sam had punched him and dragged him over to the bed, chaining him down.

After that--it was Stockholm Syndrome. Or Dean was just insane when it came to his relationship with his brother. Which was how they were at where they were now.

 

******  
Sam growled at the teasing touch of his own hand. Tilting his head slowly forward he opened his eyes. Dropping his eyes to his crotch, Dean watched his hand still, saw his smirk out of the edge of his peripheral vision. Sam took the waistband of his jeans in both hands and began to take them off, sliding them down his lean legs slowly, crouching as he did so until he shifted to take them off.

He threw them off the bed, settling himself back onto Dean's sheet-covered legs. His erection was pressing against his boxers, Dean could see it. Leaning over him he grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling hard on it until Dean's eyes narrowed with pain and he grimaced.

Sam kissed that frowning mouth, pushing his tongue inside. Dean met it with his own, his movements submissive but passionate, allowing Sam access to him fully. Pulling his tongue back into his own mouth Sam’s fangs suddenly descended, sinking into Dean’s lip until there was blood. The fangs retracted and Sam licked at his lips before he broke the kiss and straightened up. 

Dean’s lips were smeared with blood that trickled down his chin from the wound that bled freely. He could see Sam's enjoyment from that sadistically erotic picture: Dean spread out, chained down, bleeding yet aroused, at his mercy.

Sam lunged and Dean cried out as he bit and tugged at his nipples with his human teeth, licking up the saltiness of the sweat on his skin as he made his way down his body. He shivered as Sam's tongue caressed his abdomen, tracing the grooves, going around and around the edge of his bellybutton. The fangs made a reappearance and bit into Dean’s side just above his hip bone. Pain lanced through Dean and he whimpered. Sam sat up, fangs still showing, blood smearing his mouth. Dean turned his head away. He never looked at Sam with fangs. Never.

The sheet was shoved down roughly and he was taken into his mouth. He gasped, trying to push up into that wet heat, but Sam's hands on his hips shoved him back down and he tried to control himself, trembling all over as Sam sucked and swirled his tongue. Dean raised his head enough to watch him, seeing his throbbing cock sliding in and out of his exquisite mouth. The fangs were gone, thankfully. His eyes were closed, solely focused on what he was doing. Pleasure slammed up Dean’s spine, making him pant, his temperature skyrocketing. 

Those burning, cruel eyes opened and Sam smiled around his erection. He raised his head until only the head remained inside, then his human teeth nipped at the very tip. Pain shocked through him and he screamed, back bowing. 

Sam returned to suckling, his hands tight on Dean's hips, thumbs rubbing his skin. Gasping harshly, Dean squeezed his eyes shut. The coil between his legs tightened steadily and he wondered if Sam would let him come this time.

He did and Dean's voice sounded through the room once again as he orgasmed into his waiting mouth. He felt Sam swallow and lick him clean, humming in contentment. Collapsing back against the bed, panting and shivering, he opened his eyes as Sam's weight left the bed.

Sam walked over to the small table set against the wall, his hips swaying a little with confident sexuality. His lean, muscular back gleamed in the firelight and Dean felt arousal stir again. Sam, stripped of all his self-imposed self-consciousness, laid down to just the most base, was a sight to behold. He wore his body better than ever, exuded sensuality in ways Dean never had. Dean watched him rifle through the items laid out on the plain wood surface, then turned his head forwards again, closing his eyes, waiting for Sam to make his choice.

The mattress dipped as Sam returned, settling himself over him. He opened his eyes to see Sam idly playing with a cockring. He groaned softly and licked his lips, tasting the copper tang of his own blood. Sam smiled wickedly, reaching down and beginning to put the ring on him. He wasn't gentle and Dean whimpered in pain that clashed with pleasure as Sam's fingers stroked him during the task. Once the ring was tightly settled around the base of his cock, Sam wrapped his fingers around him and caressed him gently to full erection. 

"Sam, please, let me taste you," Dean whispered.

Sam looked up at him, then smiled. He leaned over him and yanked the knife out of the headboard which took considerable effort with how deeply it was lodged. Without dropping the knife he grabbed Dean's hips, shoving him up as Dean raised himself into a sitting position. The edge of the blade scraped his hip but he wasn't sure if it drew blood. 

Sam suddenly thunked the knife back into the headboard at the side of Dean's head. It was so close to him that he felt a few strands of his hair move as the ends of them were severed by the piercing blade. Despite himself, Dean jumped and gasped.

Sam kissed him, ravaging his mouth roughly. His tongue dug at his bitten lip and reopened the wound. Sam drew his lip between his and sucked on it, drawing out a little blood, his tongue flickering out to lick up the spillage tracing down his chin.

Gasping for breath when Sam finally released him, seeing him doing the same, he waited for him to get up on his knees and shove down his boxers, releasing his erection. He scooted closer and Dean opened his mouth, letting it slide inside and down his throat. He heard Sam's growl of pleasure and he began to suck slowly and carefully, rubbing with his tongue.

Sam began to thrust against his mouth, his pace steadily increasing. His eyes watered as he struggled against gagging. Sam was gripping the headboard, shoving against his mouth until he finally came with a groan. Dean swallowed against his sore throat, Sam pulling back and resting his weight on his thighs. 

He watched his chest heave as he caught his breath, his eyes fixed on Dean's. "I was going to whip you, Dean, but now I can't wait to be inside you."

He got off the bed again and padded back over to the table, retrieving the lube. Dean obediently slid down the headboard back into his original position as Sam returned. He lubed his fingers and wound them around his cock, stroking himself slowly until he was hard again while Dean watched.

Dean spread his legs and bent his knees, waiting. Sam smiled and the first slick finger eased inside. This was what killed him. Sam was a monster and happy to hurt Dean as if he had something to prove, but at the same time, he seemed to still love him and took care of him. 

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean murmured, closing his eyes.

Sam eased the second in and spread them, finding Dean’s sweet spot and rubbing it firmly. Dean groaned, his erection held back by the stretchy ring, squirming as Sam thrust his fingers slowly in and out. A third was worked in and Dean panted.

“Sam, just do it, man.”

The fingers were removed and Sam grabbed his hips and slammed into him. Dean groaned and locked his legs around Sam’s hips. Sam pounded into him without mercy. Pain and pleasure warred, his prostate assaulted but Sam's movements abusive. His nails scratched at Dean's skin, his low grunts accentuated by the slap of flesh against flesh. Dean closed his eyes, taking the violent thrusts. His head was pressing painfully into the headboard, his arms cramping from the tightened muscles and his wrists bruised and raw from the bare metal cuffs. Sam's hand returned to his cock, rubbing him with quick, tight pumps.

Sam growled again and Dean felt the burning heat as he released inside of him. The cockring kept him from coming and he sighed as Sam withdrew, leaning over him and recovering. Finally Sam opened his eyes and smirked at him.

"So, you didn't come. Well, I'm not done with you yet."

Sam got off the bed, clearly shaky. He went back to his assortment of toys and returned. A ballgag went into Dean's mouth, leaving his jaws achingly wide open. A vibrator was pushed inside of him and then turned on.

Dean's body jumped, straining against his bonds as the pleasure tingled and burned through him. He screamed against the ballgag, eyes clenched shut and teeth sinking into the gag. He moved mindlessly, thrusting his hips up against the air, and it only got worse when feathers began to tickle over his skin. They brushed over his erection, along his quivering stomach. Overturned, the tips scritched his nipples, were pinpricked against his ribs. One was poked into the wound on his chest and Dean wailed with the sting. 

Sam took hold of the vibrator and began to thrust in and out of him so that the humming tip left and returned to his sweet spot over and over. Cock throbbing, he opened his eyes and looked at Sam pleadingly for relief. His depraved smile quickened his blood further and he whined, twisting uselessly against the sheets. 

Sam reached up and removed the gag from his mouth. "What?"

"Please! Sam, please, I can't take it anymore. Please!"

His mouth was taken again and he moaned, tongue sliding against Sam's pleadingly. He felt the vibrator turned off and removed, then Sam slammed into him again, making him scream. He was driven into the mattress again, his whole body bouncing with Sam's force.

Dean's screams echoed through the room this time, meeting every one of his violent thrusts. Finally he felt the cockring removed and he arched, coming immediately. His seed splattered all over his chest and stomach without a single stroke to his cock. He heard Sam growl; the thrusts continued. Sam's fingers grabbed him and fondled him roughly. Tears were running down his cheeks now, pain and pleasure melding together into one frustrating, confusing sensation, he was oversensitive and bruised.

He came again almost immediately, hard and painful, feeling the heat filling him again as Sam joined him. When he pulled out and fell away, Dean was left on the bed, trembling all over, paralyzed from sheer exhaustion. His lungs burned and his throat felt like he had swallowed glass as he struggled to breathe. Aftershocks tingled through him, afterglow making his head fuzzy and sight dim. 

"Mmm," Sam purred once he had recovered and sat up. Dean drowsily opened his eyes, looking up at him. Sam's fingers petted his wet stomach, his beautiful face taken up with another wicked smile. "This is for my eyes only, Dean. No one else may dare see this body, may dare hear you ever again. I love making you crazy, I love hurting you until you scream."

"I know," Dean said, his voice scratchy. 

"I wonder what makes you submit, though. I would expect you to fight me."

Dean said nothing, just watched him. The fingers caressing his stomach were lulling him, and sleep tugged at him. Sam asked continuously and wouldn’t let it go. Dean didn’t know if it was just to mess with him. Sam had to know. Crazily codependent. But, Sam was really talking to himself now, his eyes on his hand. 

"You will always be mine to play with, to hurt and to bleed, to fill with pleasure and make come for me. Maybe one day I’ll kill you."

The words were spoken casually. Dean looked up at him, watching the broad shoulders shrug indifferently. He knew Sam would do it, too, if he suddenly decided he wanted to. And he had no doubt he would succeed. Dean could not resist him. He could not say no any longer, didn’t stop him taking his control from him. He was lost and drowning and he did nothing to save himself. He wanted it.

"You won't kill me," he said. 

Sam's eyes flicked to his. “Oh?”

“No. You need me to hurt.”

Sam’s laughter rang through the basement room. He moved, straddling Dean’s hips. “Maybe that’s so. Now let’s see how loud you can get when I am really hurting you.”


End file.
